


Chrysanthemum

by Whovianus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Assassin - Freeform, Assassin!Victor, Flowers, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-09 17:44:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3258698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whovianus/pseuds/Whovianus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Chrysanthemum represents beauty and life in every culture but Italy, where it is the flower of death. Every year, on November second and the day of the dead, it is tradition to visit loved ones that have passed to place a chrysanthemum on their grave. It was only fitting that with that very flower Victor Trevor, a highly skilled assassin, received Sherlock Holmes' name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chrysanthemum

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, guys! This is more or less the first Viclock fan fiction that I post anywhere so bear with me. The next few chapters will be much longer, this is just a preview of the story. xx Thank you! Feedback is always welcome and feel free to point out any issues as long as it's constructive.

 

  
The name of the target arrived like it always did, attached to the Chrysanthemum left on his doorstep. The Chrysanthemum; a flower that in anywhere else would represent beauty and life. But for his employer the flower represented nothing but death and destruction. Victor had just arrived home from a swift kill when he saw the flower, it being the first thing that greeted him at his doorstep. The grin that crossed his lips couldn't be explained as anything but predatory and he bent to pick the freshly picked flower from the ground. It was poetic that the Italian mafia boss picked such a symbolic flower every time to tell the assassin what he wanted. Victor didn’t pay attention to the the name on the card attached to the flower at first, leaving it on the table until he had fully showered and was out of his work outfit with his gun polished and put away. Only then did the assassin care to pick up the card, smirking at the name printed on it.

 

Sherlock Holmes.

 

He’d wondered when he’d finally get a hit on the mighty detective who had a habit of pissing off all the wrong people. Sherlock Holmes, the man that had worked on so many cases provided by Victor. Kills that he’d left out in the open just so that the police would stumble upon them and call Sherlock Holmes, planted clues that would give Sherlock the rush of believing he was closing up on the skilled assassin only to end with absolutely nothing. Sherlock loved games and so did Victor, even if the one they were playing with each other was their own dirty little secret.

Victor was never one to turn down a hit and definitely never one that was so interesting so he did not. The thrill of the game was just what he needed and he had been hoping for this opportunity for a long time. He detached the card from the flower with care and walked over to the display of his many Chrysanthemums that were slowly drying upside over his counter where he hung them. The newest addition gave the collection colour and life again but Victor knew that it would only be a day or two before even that flower began to wither. Like all life did.

 

With the flower in place, the assassin could finally sit down in his living room with a glass of crimson wine and a collection of files and papers in front of him.

He had planning to do.

-

 

On the other side of London, Sherlock Holmes stood over the body of forty five year old business man Antony Rosson. He had not been just some business man however, Sherlock observed easily. Antony Rosson had been running from something, someone, and had obviously not ran fast enough seeing as he was now surrounded with police tape and had a bullet placed perfectly between his eyes. The detective was far more interested in the assassin that had killed the man than the man himself admittedly. The man was dull, he had just gotten in with the wrong kind of people and had been executed for going against them possibly. Dull.

Next to him, Detective Inspector Lestrade was going through security feeds that showed the seconds before the murder and from the glances he stole, Sherlock could tell that the assassin was skilled and showed no remorse. He had not wasted a single breath to pull the trigger when the victim had come into the open and despite the distance, he had still made the perfect shot. While Lestrade and the others did not think that the assassin was the same man they'd been chasing for so long, Sherlock knew for a fact that he was. He had to be, Sherlock was sure of it.

 It excited the detective as much as it depressed him. No case with this specific killer had gone anywhere yet. It would be open for eactly two weeks and they would have clues to work with all  the time and then suddenly... Nothing. Nothing would come up and Sherlock was beginning to catch on. He was being played, this was a game again and it wasn't Moriarty. Moriarty's crimes would have been loud just like him but these murders weren't, they were quiet but at the same time planned to perfection. They were sustainable, quick and efficient. The marks of a perfect killer.

 

It was driving Sherlock mad. 

 

After Moriarty, Sherlock had never been drawn to catch someone so badly. But there was nothing. No contact had been made, no real clues had come up at all, Sherlock knew absolutely nothing about the man apart from his competence at what he did and that he was playing with Sherlock. But despite his frustration Sherlock wouldn't give up on the case, it having suddenly gone from a measly five to perhaps even a nine with the presence of the killer. He had an assassin to catch, a game to play. And his first stop was going to be the roof of the building where the bullet had come from. The rooftop where now in the place of the assassin sat a red rhododendron. A beautiful flower that only meant one thing.

  
Danger.

 


	2. Cercis Siliguastrum

"Sherlock, for god's sake you've been looking at that flower for the past four days." John's voice rang out in the flat, making Sherlock's head snap up from where he indeed was staring at the flower. The detective had at first believed there would be at least some clue that came with the flower though four days later there was absolutely nothing. All it was was a flower, one that he now knew the meaning behind. When Sherlock was not staring at the rhododendron - which  wasn't often - he had been researching flowers because he got a sense that this case would be based around them. Now in Sherlock's mind palace, in the hall dedicated solely to the killer there was a room dedicated to flowers of all colours and shapes. 

"He's _threatening_ me, John!" Sherlock huffed and threw the flower unto the table at last. "Danger. Ha! Danger, as if that'll put me off." He stayed on the couch for another few moments before shooting up and getting his coat while ignoring the puzzled look on John's face. He had to go to the Yard and look at all the files again. There had to be something he was missing, no one was ever _this_ good. And Sherlock Holmes was not losing his touch, there just had to be something. 

 

There was nothing it turned out in the end. No clues Sherlock had missed, no witnesses to talk to. The murders were all perfect and it drove Sherlock mad. He had been doing this long enough to know that no murder was perfect and that there even was no such thing as the perfect murder. But this assassin was proving that all wrong hit by hit. He didn't keep just one method either, he did whatever was efficient. A gun, his hands, knives and on a few occasions just anything he could get his hands on. While everything was calculated, the killer could not help the rush of letting go at times and one day that would expose him.  
  
Having found nothing of importance Sherlock stood to leave only to hear Lestrade's voice calling out for him and something about another hit. Sherlock's ears perked up at that and he barely wasted a second to get to the man and slip into his car which led them both to the crime scene. A street that had once been remotely deserted but was now full of policemen and the forensic team huddled around the body of a young woman. It didn't take much to deduce that it was the same exact assassin from the preciseness of the shot. He still inspected her body however, taking his time to look her over for his deductions that he would give Lestrade. 

  
  
"She's married but not happily seeing as she was just on her way back from a date, one where she took off her ring so an affair..." He explained all that he saw on her to Lestrade, letting him take down his notes. Though Sherlock was hardly done when he noticed the unnatural way her mouth was open, as if it had been done so by someone else after she had died. The detective's small kit was out only seconds after and he brought out a pair of tweezers with which he reached into the victim's mouth. 

"Lestrade!" There at the end of the metal was a flower of the cercis siliquastrum, more commonly known as the Judas tree the flower of... "Lestrade, he's left a _clue._ " There was a splutter from Anderson on the side that Sherlock ignored. Not a clue as to who he was, no, a clue of who had hired him. The flower of the Judas tree, the flower of betrayal. With his work done, Sherlock swooped right back up and dropped the flower in an evidence bag.   
  
"Arrest the husband. He knew about the affair, I'm sure beneath the right amount of pressure he will crack and admit to hiring the assassin. I wouldn't try too hard to get the identity of the man from him, I do doubt he ever really saw our killer."  

Sherlock was already walking off as he spoke hardly having the time to hang around for more questions. He had to think, had to understand why the killer would leave a clue. Deep down Sherlock already knew of course, he was still being played and this was a new game. A far more exciting game.

 

-

 

Sherlock had been far too deep in his thoughts to realize something was off about the flat when he arrived at the flat. It was halfway up the stairs that the detective's mind finally registered the feeling and he hesitated for a few seconds. John and Mary were out to dinner that night, he had just left Lestrade, Mycroft had little reason to drop by and Mrs Hudson was at her sister's so the feeling Sherlock's had of not being alone made little sense. His suspicions were proven to be true once he did open the door to his flat to find all the curtains drawn and the lights switched off. But even in the darkness he could make the silhouette of the man sitting on his hair dressed completely in black. He wanted to turn on the lights, his entire body screamed at him to do so but he didn't. Instead, Sherlock calmly walked over and took a place in John's old seat. Something in him told him that the man was the assassin at last there to make contact and Sherlock could only hope he could get something from him.

The man would not be idiotic enough to leave any of the cameras and recording devices Mycroft had placed behind working so Sherlock didn't rely on them at all, crossing his legs and sitting comfortably despite the twist in his stomach.  
  
"You're something akin to famous." He only spoke minutes later after they'd fully examined each other. The hint of light coming from the curtain in the sitting room allowed Sherlock to take in what he could from the assassin like his confidence, the smirk on his lips and his toned body. That could be useful in the future. "The man that had stumped the great Sherlock Holmes... How do you do it?" There was no answer which Sherlock had expected and so he went back to watching the assassin. His eyes had gotten much more used to the dark, allowing him to now make out half of an admittedly handsome face and auburn hair. His eyes were still as much of a mystery to Sherlock as the rest of him was. 

Silence rang out for another few long minutes, both men wathing each other before the assassin rose to his feet and so did Sherlock's heart to his throat. He was tall and strong, stronger than Sherlock and obviously with much more training. If it came down to it, the brunet would have to use his mind instead of his power and from the way the man neared him it seemed he would have to. 

"Don't fear, little bee..." The voice was deep and singsong, the slightest hint of an accent he couldn't place behind it. Sherlock held his breath as the man began to lean down and in towards him and the detective noticed only then that something was in the assassin's hands. Not a weapon but a... File?  
  


Sherlock had been busy enough thinking of the file that he didn't notice how close the man's face really had gotten and when he did notice it was far too late. Soft lips pressed to his and for a second Sherlock melted but the kiss was broken before he could think much more of it. The file dropped onto his lap but Sherlock didn't bother to open it yet, staring ahead with wide eyes. His mind had drawn a blank, something it rarely ever did. He was too shocked to try and stop the man as he slipped away straight through the door. He had been kissed. By a ruthless killer who had also given him a file. 

That was enough to take Sherlock out of his trance and he opened the cover only for a pressed and dried chrysanthemum to slip out and fall to the ground. But Sherlock ignored that the same way he put aside all his confusion about the kiss and the man. There would be time to ponder later but for now the case mattered the most. 

Because in his hands Sherlock Holmes now held enough information and leads to bring down an entire empire of crime. All provided by a single man that held unimaginable skill with a gun and blades and had a poetic taste in flowers.

 


End file.
